War is War
by TheBrightestNight
Summary: Alt. click-bait title: You Fucked Up a Perfectly Good Superhero is What You Did. Look at Him. He's Got PTSD. (and then multiply this by a factor of 6) Luther gets really sick, and doesn't want to set foot in the infirmary.


Luther's body was burning. But he couldn't move. Trapped in his mind, he couldn't get away from the flames. He couldn't even scream or call out for help. All he could do was lie there helplessly as his body blazed.

Then he couldn't breathe. It was like something was sitting on his chest. Panic kicked in and he struggled as much as he could, but his body was still paralyzed. His vision was already dark, but his head felt like it was filling up with lead air, past bursting point. His body continued to uselessly struggle to get oxygen to his brain, but to no avail.

Then it felt like he went into some kind of stasis. A horrible stasis, stuck in the moment where his body was on the verge of giving up because of the lack of oxygen to his brain. The feeling of an elephant sitting on his chest remained, and so did the flames. But his body was no longer struggling.

Luther wasn't sure how long he was held in that horrid state, and he wished it would stop. He wished he could move, _something_. Then a sharp pain ignited in his chest, shooting straight through his heart and hitting his spine. From there, sped through his spine before splitting and shooting through his torso and arms. It felt like the muscles in his upper body were one a taffy puller, stretched beyond the limits of even a superhero's body.

Still his body remained paralyzed.

Luther came to screaming, bolting upright in his bed. Grace, unfortunately, had chosen that moment to enter Luther's room with a tray of soup in hand. Through his sick-induced delirium and PTSD dream-state, he thought he was back in the infirmary.

The infirmary—the place he absolutely _refused_ to return to because of the most horrid memory it brought up, and then the trauma that followed.

"_NO!_" Luther shrieked, leaping up from his bed and barreling toward the doorway, and in effect, Grace as well. Grace, being a robot, was able to get over her shock and quickly back away. By the time Luther had reached the threshold, she was already a few feet away down the hall, still facing Luther. And not a single drop of soup had spilled, the spoon hadn't even rattled on the tray.

He was confused, looking down the hallway that wasn't the hallway that led to the infirmary. He could have sworn he was in the infirmary. But that part didn't really matter to him in that moment.

"Get away from me!" Luther shouted, glaring balefully at Grace. Luther may have loved Mom, she was more caring of him and his siblings than Sir Reginald had been. But if Luther was being honest, he wasn't sure if he could ever find it in him to forgive Grace for being so complicit in what Sir Reginald had done to him. Maybe she didn't agree, but she certainly hadn't protested at the time, and she was gone when Luther woke.

What he had wanted in that moment was an explanation. Why his body looked like it did. What had happened after the explosion. He couldn't remember any of it. And they had _left him_, there, in the infirmary, in a comatose. Did they worry about him—Grace and Pogo? Did they check on him? Why weren't either of them there when he woke? (He hadn't expected Sir Reginald to be there, even in the best of times.)

The shouting and commotion had gotten the attention from his siblings, scattered through the house. The one who made it to Luther first, however, was Allison. She approached slowly, hands and arms held up in surrender. She pushed past Grace, and approached Luther cautiously, until she was close enough to rest her palms on Luther's broad chest.

Luther only had eyes for Grace.

"Go away!" he shouted again, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. "I don't want to see you!"

Grace turned and quickly walked out of sight with what a human would interpret on her face as regret and guilt, and a little hurt. Luther remained worked up until he realized someone was speaking to him in soft tones. Until he realized Allison was there, trying to calm him down.

Breathing hard, Luther stumbled, feeling suddenly very light-headed and nauseous. Allison tried to right him, but the doorframe did most of the work considering how heavy Luther was. Still, she helped him back to his bed once he had regained his balance somewhat.

"I'm here," she was saying. "I'm right here. It's okay."

Luther nearly collapsed onto the bed, struggling to crawl onto it and curl up on his side. His whole body was trembling, his breath shaky and ragged, as he relived the mission that had nearly killed him, and then waking up in an empty infirmary with his body so disfigured he hadn't recognized it as his. (Some days he still didn't.)

Allison sat on the edge of the bed, a hand on Luther's back, rubbing soothing circles. Luther had been really sick the past few days, but he refused to go into the infirmary for treatment. He avoided Grace and Pogo like the plague. His illness had gotten so bad, his siblings had found him collapsed in the hallway to his bedroom. So his siblings helped to get him into bed and monitored him routinely until his fever broke.

Grace, of course, wanted to help—she'd been programmed to. But it was clear that that had been a mistake. Luther's other siblings had done the monitoring and checking-up while Grace had made food, but it had slipped their minds that letting her deliver it could end in disaster. They hadn't expected Luther to wake up exactly as she went in, but should have known better.

Plan for the worse, hope for the best, and all that.

From then on, Luther's siblings took turns checking up on him, bringing him food. He slept for another day. None of them could blame him. Thankfully, his fever had gone down, too. At some point, one of them (probably Allison) would have to convince him to take some medicine. But for now, it was enough that they checked up on him and brought him food.

Not a whisper about what'd happened was exchanged between any of those residing in the mansion. Luther didn't seem to remember it, and his siblings thought it was for the best. However, maybe it was time to think about finding a therapist. And maybe not just for Luther.

* * *

**Yay, another one down! Much shorter than my last two, but that's all I've got folks ****¯\\_(****ツ****)_/¯**

**This idea is not my own, I got it from a friend on Tumblr (in a post from someone else).**

**The title is from that quote from M*A*S*H, about how war is war and Hell is Hell (rather than war being Hell).**

**As always, I hope you enjoyed! Comments are much appreciated!**

**Thank you for reading,  
****TheBrightestNight**


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